Jeffersonian Tales
by SkylaraK
Summary: Booth and the squints kill some time while waiting for Zack to meet them for a welcome back dinner. Some BB romance towards the end.  Complete!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Clearly I don't do this for the money. I know I don't own Bones, nor do I own the Canterbury Tales. I'm just trying to have a little fun here.

Thanks to FauxMaven for her help on this chapter, and for the inspiration for the story in general.

This story will be seven chapters long. I already have most of it written, so I'll aim to post a new chapter every few days or so.

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In her office, Temperance Brennan leaned against her desk, fastening a dangling earring from one earlobe, then its partner from the other. Having just changed in the lab's bathroom, her lab coat hung on the coat rack and her work clothes were folded neatly in her bag. She smoothed out her shirt and adjusted the hem of her skirt while Angela waited patiently with her necklace. Turning, Brennan let her friend secure the necklace around her throat, the wood pendant resting just above the hint of cleavage peeking out from the neckline of her blouse. She faced Angela and held out her arms, seeking approval.

"You look great," Angela smiled.

"Thanks, Ange," Brennan said. "Are you going to change before we go?"

Angela nodded. "My clothes are in my office. Jack and I will probably leave here in about a half hour or so. Is Booth picking you up?"

"Yes, he should be here soon," Brennan said as she peered into a mirror, freshening her makeup. "Have you ever been to this place before?"

"The Tabard Inn? Sure. You haven't?"

Brennan shook her head, swiping lipstick across her mouth. She pressed her lips together, then checked her teeth in the mirror. Satisfied that she looked alright, Brennan glanced up at Angela.

"It'll be good to have Zack around again," she said quietly.

Nodding solemnly, Angela replied, "Yeah, it will. I hope it hasn't changed him too much—at least, not for the worse."

From out in the main part of the lab, a shout caused them to look toward the doorway. "Bones! It's time to go, come on!"

Brennan rolled her eyes at Angela, who smirked in response. "I'll tell him you'll be out in a minute," the artist offered as she headed out the door.

Shutting down her computer, she flicked off the lights and lifted her bag, slipping it easily onto her shoulder. After giving herself a quick once over, she picked up her smaller purse from on top of her desk and headed out of her office, shutting the door firmly behind her.

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The foyer of the restaurant was decorated in what would best be described as an eclectic style. A colorful statue of a laughing Buddha stood in the entryway and now Brennan examined the unusual mix of artwork adorning the walls. She understood why Angela had picked this place; between the shabby chic look of much of the furnishings and the funky decor, the place gave off a strangely welcoming feel. It seemed a popular place, as well—the parlor and bar were filled with a wide assortment of people, from politicians to tourists to artist-types. Turning away from an enormous painting of a barnyard scene with several ornately plumed turkeys in the foreground, she scowled at Booth.

"There was no need for us to get here so early," she griped. "Angela and Hodgins probably haven't even left the lab yet."

Shaking his head slightly, Booth kept his gaze on the crowd in the parlor. "I told you, I want to get a good table. That means getting here early and tipping well."

She pulled a face at him, knowing he wasn't watching.

"What are you, five?" he asked.

"How do you do that, Booth?"

She saw the corners of his mouth turn up in what she recognized as his smug smile. Before she had the chance to make a snide comment, a hostess approached them, holding an armful of menus. They followed her out onto the patio and Brennan was immediately impressed. Booth had secured them a quiet table in the corner and as they sat down, she took in her surroundings. The patio was enclosed by a tall brick wall, covered in lush green vines. The lighting was low enough to encourage a romantic air, helped along by the cozily arranged wrought iron tables and chairs.

When she glanced at Booth, she noticed that he was watching her with an expectant look. She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Well?" he said, a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips.

"Okay, fine. This is a good table," she admitted.

"I already knew that, Bones." He shook his head in mock exasperation.

After ordering drinks, a Sam Adams for Booth, and a glass of Delaporte Sancerre for herself, they talked quietly, waiting for the rest of their group to arrive. She was anxious to see Zack and kept an eye on the door, watching for him. All too clearly, she remembered her first trip to identify the remains of victims of war, and she wondered how Zack had coped. She and Booth talked about it from time to time, what it must be like for him, Brennan having the experience with what work he'd be doing, and Booth having spent time in Iraq himself.

Before long, Angela and Hodgins appeared in the doorway. As always when they went out, Angela looked gorgeous, wearing a form-fitting burgundy dress. Even Hodgins had dressed up, though it was with his usual eccentric taste. They took their seats opposite Booth and Brennan, leaving one seat left for Zack. Cam had bowed out, claiming a prior engagement, and secretly Brennan was relieved. She always had trouble socializing with her boss, though they had a grudging respect for each others' work.

"Has anyone heard from Zack?" Brennan asked.

"Yeah, he called before he flew out of Grand Rapids," Hodgins answered, glancing at his watch. "He should be here soon."

"So what do you think?" Angela asked her, gesturing to their surroundings.

"It's clearly a popular restaurant. I see why you like it, the atmosphere they've created is wonderful," Brennan replied.

Angela nodded, then indicated a sculpture along the far wall. "I absolutely love that piece," she smiled.

She turned her attention to what Angela was showing her. From this distance, she couldn't quite be sure what it was made of, though it appeared to be stone. The subject was a person submerged in what might be a bath, with overlarge thighs and knees emerging from the foreground of the surface, and a disproportionately smaller torso and head rising from the rear. She knew it was the type of art that Angela might appreciate, though she didn't particularly understand it herself.

A waitress appeared at their table to take drink orders from Angela and Hodgins. After a hurried discussion, they all agreed to order some appetizers and selected a dozen of the Glidden Point oysters as well as an order of the tempura soft shell crab and fried calamari.

The shrill ringing of a cell phone interrupted their perusal of the menu.

"That's mine, hang on," Hodgins said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He glanced at the caller ID. "It's Zack," he told them.

"Hey, Zack," he said, answering the phone.

They listened to his end of the conversation with interest. After several minutes, he finally disconnected the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"There was a problem with the luggage, apparently. He's just leaving the airport now, on his way home to drop off his things." They all groaned. "He should be here in maybe an hour."

After a good ten minutes spent soundly abusing the airline industry, their waitress reappeared with their appetizers. The oysters tasted deliciously fresh and salty, with a perfect mignonette sauce spooned into each of the half shells. They ate their fill, cracking jokes about inflaming libidos, before moving onto the tempura and calamari. Before long they felt sated and sipped idly at their drinks, the conversation lulling. The muted sounds of live jazz music being played in the sitting areas flowed out onto the patio. Brennan cast around for a topic of discussion and settled on the restaurant itself.

"Do you suppose this place is named after the legendary Tabard Inn?" she asked, mainly to Angela, assuming she would know.

Angela nodded. "It is. I read about it in the Diplomat a while ago. I didn't know there was any historical basis to the name until then."

Booth shifted in his seat, grumbling, "Leave it to you guys to find something squinty about a nice restaurant."

"Hey," Angela said, wagging a finger at him. "Just because I work with these guys, doesn't make me a squint."

Hodgins and Brennan both frowned at her. "What's wrong with being a squint?" Hodgins asked.

Cringing slightly, Angela patted Hodgins on the arm. "Nothing, Jack. That's not how I meant it."

Booth chuckled. "How did you mean it then?"

"We weren't talking about squinty stuff, we were talking about literature."

With a grin, Booth replied, "Yeah, you have to squint to read literature, you know."

"Maybe you'd benefit from squinting at something literary once in a while, Booth," Brennan commented.

"Hey, I read. Just because it's not _Forensic Anthropology Today_ or _Geeky Weekly_ doesn't mean it's not reading," he winked at Brennan to show he was joking, though it only served to irritate her.

Hodgins laughed, earning him glares from the two women. "Sorry, but _Geeky Weekly_? That's great, man."

Brennan elbowed Booth sharply in return for his smug smirk. "Alright, alright, forget it," he groused. "I suppose I'm in for a lecture about this historical relevance, aren't I?"

With an exasperated sigh, Brennan said, "We weren't going to lecture you, Booth. It's just that this restaurant—well, the inn, actually—takes its name from a similar place in England, the Tabard Inn, that Geoffrey Chaucer refers to in "The Canterbury Tales" as 'frequented by pilgrims.'

After an exaggerated pause, Booth pulled a surprised face. "Oh, is the lecture over already?" Brennan could tell he was suppressing laughter.

Brennan rolled her eyes at him and was about to respond with a good-natured jab of her own when Angela interrupted her.

"Oh, that's a good idea!" she exclaimed.

The three of them looked at her strangely. "What's a good idea?" Hodgins asked, a slightly worried look on his face.

"'The Canterbury Tales,'" she said and seemed finished with her explanation until she noticed the puzzled looks on everyone's faces. "Oh, come on," she sighed. "We have at least, what, forty-five minutes until Zack will get here?" They all nodded in agreement. "So, let's kill time by telling stories, like in The Canterbury Tales.'"

Booth gave her a clearly dubious look. "What kind of stories?"

Angela shrugged. "Any kind, I suppose. Something about you or a made-up story, I don't care."

Hodgins seemed to be on board, and Brennan was fine with the idea—after all, storytelling was right up her alley. But Booth still looked skeptical.

Groaning, Angela offered, "I'll go first, okay? You'll have time to figure out what story you want to tell."

Booth grudgingly agreed, and as Angela spent a moment gathering her thoughts in preparation to tell her story, Brennan wondered about Booth and what he might talk about. She already knew what story she'd be telling, something she had been working on for a while, though she hadn't really been planning on sharing it. It was just the kind of tale to tell in homage to the Canterbury Tales, so she decided to go for it. She just hoped that none of her coworkers would be able to perceive her inspiration for the story.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, here we go.. all together now. ::holds up her hands as if to conduct:: Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear SkylaraK, Happy Birthday to you..

Excellent, great job, thanks so much! Yes, it is my birthday today.. what do you think the chances are that my husband will come home with David Boreanaz wrapped up in a bow? Probably slim, huh?

Disclaimer: If I'm asking for Bones for my birthday, then it's obvious that I don't already own it, so stop pestering me.

My deepest gratitude to the ever-wise FauxMaven for her work on this chapter. Thanks!

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Angela took a sip of her Chardonnay, watching as the others settled themselves comfortably. She wasn't entirely sure what she was going to tell them; she had jumped into this game without looking where she was going. Glancing over at Jack, who was staring absently at his empty plate, his brow furrowed, her heart swelled as it often did when she looked at him. This love she felt for him was still new and shiny to her, and she dreaded it fading. Surprisingly enough, Jack had shown himself to have all of the important characteristics she looked for in a man, and several more that she hadn't known she needed. A slow smile slipped over her lips and she knew what story she would tell.

Clearing her throat, she began speaking assertively. "Bren, I'm not sure if I've told you this story before, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it even if you've already heard it."

Turning back to Jack, she placed her hand lightly on his arm. "You guys have got to know how much Jack means to me, though you probably don't realize how much that says about Jack." She glanced toward Brennan, who was smiling faintly. "While I might not have been too picky about who I dated in the past, I'm quite a bit more particular about who I call a boyfriend. Luckily for Jack, he figured it out pretty quickly, but other men haven't had it so easy."

She leaned back in her seat, resting one hand in her lap and leaving the other on the table, near her wineglass. She didn't have Brennan's natural storytelling abilities and so she tried assembling the order of events in her head as she spoke.

"While I was in college, I was involved with a guy named Chris. Looking back, he was someone who would have qualified only for a few dates, but back then, I didn't have everything figured out yet," she grinned.

As she spoke, her mind was filled with images of her young boyfriend, bare-chested above her, their bodies sliding against each other; drinking themselves into stupors at a friend's apartment; walking hand in hand along a dark street; a fight that seemed to go on for hours, hurling cruel insults at each other, doors slamming.

A few nights before the fight, they'd had particularly wild sex, involving toys and, to her poor judgment, a camera. They'd had the pictures developed at a camera shop they never used, giggling on the way to pick up the photos, their faces flushed with embarrassment as they paid the clerk. Back at home in their apartment, she had insisted on looking at the pictures first, knowing that she would tear up any where she looked fat or otherwise bad. Surprisingly, the photos had turned out great, apart from a few comically aimed ones. The desire she had felt, looking at those pictures with him, had thrown her for a loop at first, but the sex afterward had been phenomenal.

As she told this part of the story, she noticed Jack's gaze, mostly inscrutable, though she thought she detected a hint of jealousy in his eyes. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Am I getting too graphic for you?" she grinned.

"No," he grumbled. "I just can't believe you let that guy take pictures of you, but won't let me."

Angela laughed. "Well, you're about to find out why."

She let her mind return to her memories of Chris. There was the unexpected conversation with a friend of his at a party; he was clearly trashed, but still able to recall with vivid detail one particularly compromising picture of her. She recalled the heat of shame, the raw fury, the blur of people as she ran past, out the door, and into the cool night air.

The fight had been terrible. He had apologized immediately, but she was too angry. She kept the fight going, relentlessly berating him for his lack of respect, his idiocy, and more. Then he had gotten angry at her reaction, and things had gotten truly ugly. The slamming of the door as he left knocked pictures off her walls. She fumed the rest of the night and all the next day.

She got a phone call that night from one of her good friends. From what her friend said, he had approached her, asking for advice on what Angela wanted most of all, for a way to show her how sorry he was. Her friend told her she had given him a few suggestions and sent him on his way, and by the way, what was going on?

Over the next few days, she heard from other friends of hers that he had approached them, also looking for knowledge of what made Angela tick, what would make her forgive him. She was a bit dismayed that her friends had given him such varied answers. Did nobody know what she really wanted? Maybe if she had told her friends the truth, what he had done wrong, they might have gotten it right, but she wasn't sure. She was younger then, she explained to her coworkers, sitting around her at the Tabard Inn, and while she might get a laugh out of something like that happening now, back then she had been humiliated.

One thing that perplexed her, however, was why he hadn't come to her to apologize. Why was he waiting, going around to everyone she knew and then some, trying to figure out how to make amends? Was she that scary? She thought about it but couldn't figure it out. Truth be told, she really didn't even know what he could possibly come up with that would make her forgive him. After all, she didn't love him, she had no real reason to try to make their relationship work. But beyond that—what did she want? What was she looking for when she dated men, what qualities did she desire, beyond the obligatory good looks and sexual prowess?

She paused here in the story, assessing the reactions of her dinner companions. They were all watching her with interest and she felt a flush of pride at being able to tell a story that held their attention. Well, she figured Jack and Booth were listening in the hopes she'd go into more detail about those pictures, but it didn't matter.

She grinned at them all. "Can you guess what he did?"

Brennan looked completely baffled while Booth frowned, thinking. Jack seemed to have an idea, judging by his smile.

"Well, I'll tell you," she said. "It was a full week before he showed up at my apartment. I had just gotten home from class a few minutes earlier and was heating up some pizza for dinner." She threw in the detail about pizza, though in actuality she had no idea what it was she'd been having for dinner—she thought it made the story sound better, not so vague.

She answered the door to find him standing there, his arms full to bursting with gifts for her. Her mouth opened, and he took advantage of her momentary shock to step inside. The first thing he'd handed her was a bouquet of a dozen roses. He explained that her best friend suggested flowers, as that's what men supposedly bought when they'd done something wrong. Then he gave her a box of chocolate-dipped fruit from a chocolatier a few blocks over. His sister, he told her, said that girls always love chocolate, and he remembered how much she had enjoyed a dessert they'd had once of chocolate-covered strawberries. The next gift had been a simple gold pendant, bearing a minuscule diamond. It wasn't exactly her style, but as he explained, another of her friends had reminded him of how much she loved jewelry.

At this point, his expression, which had been his best attempt at charmingly apologetic, turned serious. He handed her an envelope, and she could feel the pictures and negatives within it. He told her that all twenty-four were there, and that she could destroy them if she wished.

She had been slightly amused with the effort he had put into this, though was nowhere near forgiving him. After all, he had only gone with what other people had suggested, and not used his own knowledge of what she liked and wanted. She was vaguely disappointed that this was the best that he could come up with.

But then he had surprised her. He had told her that he knew these gifts weren't enough, that nothing he came up with would be enough to show her how sorry he felt. He explained that he understood why she was upset, that he had taken control away from her, that he had made his choices and desires more important than hers. She recalled exactly how he had bowed his head, how his long hair had fallen across his eyes. He had said that the decision was hers. If she wanted him to do something, to say something, anything, that would help her forgive him, that he would do it. Anything, he had stressed. If she wanted him to leave, he would. If she wanted him to stay, he vowed that he would always treat her fairly, evenly, that he would always respect her choices. He returned to her the control, the equality, the freedom that he had taken away. He finally understood, perhaps even better than she did, what she really needed in a man.

She stopped speaking and gave a little bow, as best she could while sitting at a table.

"What? That's it?" Booth asked, a little startled.

"Did you take him back?" Brennan asked.

Angela made a little sound of disbelief and incredulity. "What kind of a woman do you think I am?"

Booth blinked in confusion. "But you said he got it right, that he figured it out."

"Yeah, but the bastard showed naked pictures of me to his friends!" she exclaimed, causing Jack to laugh.

"Hey, Angela," Booth gave her an appraising look. "So, do you still have those pictures?"

"That is so not okay, man," Jack warned, his hackles raised.

Chuckling, Angela squeezed Jack's knee. "You have nothing to worry about, those pictures—and the negatives—were cut to pieces and tossed in the trash."

"So your only reason for not letting me photograph you is because of what some idiot kid did when you were in school?" Jack asked her.

She looked at him for a moment, then said simply, "Damn straight."

"Oh, come on," he said, his tone nearly pleading. "You know I wouldn't do anything like that to you."

Booth cleared his throat. "Wouldn't this discussion be better in private?" he hinted.

Angela gave him a smirk, then said, "Okay, suit yourself. It's your turn."

"What?" Booth asked, clearly anxious. "Why me? Let Bones go first."

Angela shook her head. "No, you're sitting next to me, we'll go around. Come on, let's hear it."

Booth groaned. "Alright, fine. But my story isn't nearly as mushy as yours."


	3. Chapter 3

Here we go, Booth's Tale. Sorry for the delay in posting this, I've come down with yet another summer cold, and my head just hadn't been in the right spot. I'll post the next chapter early on Thursday, if I can remember.

Disclaimer: This is really getting old. I don't own Bones. I don't own the Canterbury Tales. I don't make any money off this.

I had a lot of help on this chapter from FauxMaven, and I greatly appreciate it.

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Booth glanced around at his dinner companions. Two years ago he never would have guessed that he'd be spending as much time with the squints as he did now, especially Brennan. He was becoming more and more comfortable around them and got along fairly well with Angela and Hodgins, although the entomologist still irritated him from time to time. Zack, of course, was a different story altogether. He didn't dislike the kid, but his bluntness made Booth feel awkward in a way that Brennan's lack of subtlety didn't. But Booth couldn't help noticing that he was spending just as much time socially with the squints as he did with his other friends.

He caught Brennan's eye, and she gave him an encouraging smile. If it weren't for her, he probably wouldn't make as much of an effort with the rest of the team, but dinner out with the group meant he could spend more time around her. After all, he could only show up at her house with takeout so often without it looking suspicious.

"My story starts in Afghanistan in '98. I was sent there with a detachment after the Embassy bombings in East Africa. Hodgins opened his mouth to speak, and Booth cut him off. "No, I'm not going to tell you what I was doing there, so don't bother asking."

Hodgins looked distinctly disgruntled, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"This story isn't really about me, anyway. It's about three men who were there with me at the time.

"But Booth," Brennan interrupted. "I thought the Clinton administration's response was limited to cruise missile attacks."

He stared at her for a moment. "Well, I guess you'll just have to take my word that we were there."

After her hesitant nod, he continued. "Anyway. We were just outside of Pachir and really, it was actually kind of boring. Until we got more specific intelligence, there wasn't much we could do."

"Isn't Pachir near Tora Bora?" Hodgins asked.

"Yeah," Booth nodded. "Can I finish my story?"

"Sorry, sorry," Hodgins said, holding up his hands in a gesture of apology.

"Okay, so two of the guys were ordered to do some recon in the mountains to the northwest of us. They went into Pachir to find a guide. There were plenty of people in the town desperate for some cash, so they had no problem finding someone. We sat around waiting for them to get back. They were only supposed to be gone a few days, but a week came and went, and we still hadn't heard anything. We were all getting anxious, but one of the other snipers and his spotter, they were really good friends with one of the guys who'd gone scouting, you know? So they were really worried."

Booth lifted his glass of Sam Adams and brought it to his lips, wetting his mouth with the icy drink. As he set the glass back down, he cleared his throat. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, and while that wouldn't normally bother him, the fact that they were all listening to him talk about his time in the military made him a little uneasy.

"So, one morning, one of the guys stumbles back into camp, the younger of the two that had left. He was..." Booth hesitated, not wanting to go into too much detail. "He was in bad shape. No idea how he managed to make it back. They ended up airlifting him out. But before they took him, he told us what happened."

Scanning his audience, he took a deep breath. "The man they had hired as a guide decided he'd be better off stealing their gear and killing them. 'Merr'--that's what he called himself--managed to get one of their guns. I'm not sure how our guy was able to get away; he wasn't too coherent, and didn't say much more beyond that."

"When we woke up the next morning, the two men who'd been friends with the guy who was killed, they were gone. We figured they'd gone off searching for this Merr guy. My spotter and I, we were sent to look for them after a while, but couldn't find them anywhere. We kept looking, though, and after a few days, we stumbled upon the sniper, just kind of wandering around. He was really shook up."

"So, we sat him down, tried to see if he was injured or anything," Booth explained. "He was pretty much fine physically, but really distressed. Then he started telling us what happened."

He took another sip of his beer and Brennan, mimicking his actions, sipped her wine. He gave her a brief smile, which she returned.

"They had gone into Pachir looking for Merr. They only had a basic understanding of Pashto, the local language, but knew enough to get their meaning across. Apparently, everyone they asked gave them funny looks and refused to answer. Finally they came to this shack on the outskirts of the town, with an old man sitting out front. They asked him where they could find Merr, and after a long pause, he told them to go into the mountains. He managed to convey the location of a cave, told them that was where they could find Merr."

"The spotter, he had wanted to come back to camp and do it right, you know, go after this guy with more than just the two of them. But the sniper, he told us he had insisted they just go themselves. So they searched high and low for this cave, and finally found it. It wasn't a man-made cave system, like Tora Bora, it was natural. Really long tunnels, dark, confusing. Tunnels that forked, curved back, met up with other branches. So again, the spotter didn't want to go in. But the sniper convinced him, and in they went. They searched for a while, and after a bit, they came to a fork where the sniper thought he heard voices, but couldn't tell which tunnel they came from."

"They decided to split up, each take one of the tunnels. The sniper told us how he walked and walked, how he kept hearing movements up ahead, breathing, stuff like that. He said it was creepy, that things echoed oddly, that the shadows from his flashlight kept freaking him out. He got jumpy. Which I guess is why, when he came upon a guy ahead of him, they both jumped, and when the guy in front swung around with his gun aimed high, the sniper shot him without hesitation."

"The sniper said it took him a minute to realize that the guy he'd shot, killed, was his spotter. He totally broke down at that point, and it was all we could do to bring him back with us."

Again Booth paused, looking around at Brennan, Angela and Hodgins. They all looked horrified to some degree or another. He regretted choosing to tell them this story, but figured this was who he was, these were the kinds of stories he had.

"A few months later, in a different country, on a different mission, I bumped into an old friend who'd been with us in Afghanistan. We got to talking, reminiscing, you know? And he told me that a few weeks earlier, the sniper had hanged himself. The guilt was just too much, I guess."

"So they both died because they wanted to avenge their friends," Brennan said quietly.

Booth nodded at her. "There's kind of a twist to the story, though."

"What kind of twist?" Hodgins asked.

Booth smiled grimly. "Between the friendly fire incident and hearing about the sniper hanging himself, I found out a little bit of info about Merr."

It was almost comical the way that all three of them leaned towards Booth. Or it would be if the story weren't so weird.

"Well, Merr wasn't actually the guy's name. In Pashto, 'Merr' means 'death'." He folded his hands in his lap, waiting for them to understand.

Angela frowned and asked, "Why would some guy call himself 'Death'?"

"No idea. Maybe he was trying to come off as a badass or something. Being melodramatic, you know?" Booth shrugged.

"What, he said, 'Hello, I'm Death, I'm going to rob and kill you'?" Hodgins suggested.

Again, Booth shrugged, still waiting for them to find the irony.

Brennan got it first. "So the two men, the sniper and the spotter, they went looking for Death, and died," she said.

Hodgins laughed, but stopped abruptly at the look Booth shot him.

"Oh, come on, this is a joke, right? You made it up," he said.

Booth shook his head. "Nope. All true."

Silence followed Booth's statement as they all considered his tale. He watched them, each lost in thought. Finally, when his thirst for acceptance was so strong that their silence seemed a real weight on his chest, he spoke.

"So whose turn is it next?" He turned to Brennan. "Yours, right?"

Brennan shifted uncomfortably and opened her mouth to speak, but Hodgins interrupted.

"I'll go next," he said eagerly.

"No, no, it's Bones' turn. We're going around, right?" He gestured in a circular motion.

"Yeah, but I've got mine all worked out, I don't want to forget it," Hodgins insisted.

"It's okay, I don't mind," Brennan said.

Booth sighed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs under the table. "Fine, fine."

Hodgins sat up straight and cleared his throat. "Okay, go easy on me. I don't normally tell stories like this," he grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Before the usual disclaimer, let me just say that I am not a poet by trade. So keep the jeering to a minimum. And in case you forgot, I don't own Bones, nor do I make any money from writing this.

A big thank you to FauxMaven for being a wonderful beta!

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The other people at the table were quiet as Hodgins leaned back in his chair, gathering his thoughts. The noise from the tables around them was slightly distracting and interfered with his concentration, but he did his best to ignore it. He had decided what story he was going to tell right from the start, and had been trying to prepare for telling it while also listening to the others' stories. The story had some minor parallels between him and Angela; he just hoped she wouldn't take the story as a dig. Tuning out the waiters' steps and diners' conversation and the clink of silverware on plates, he took a last sip of his beer, cool and effervescent in his mouth, before speaking.

Hodgins cleared his throat, and began in a clear voice:

"My story starts a long time in the past,

In the distant, lovely land of Wales,

From which the strong Lord Pwyll did hail.

Pwyll climbed a hill, the Gorsedd of Arberth,

And as he sat, he saw a comely lady riding fast.

His horses raced for three long days, 'fore she was his at last.

She spoke of marriage forced, a man she didn't love,

And asked Lord Pwyll if he could find on Earth,

Another woman more than she was worth."

"'Rhiannon is my name,' the graceful woman said,

'If you will have my hand, there'll be no honor above.'

Lord Pwyll replied, 'There's no one I would rather love.'

They journeyed to her land, across low hills and moors,

Her father's castle fit to feast Lord Pwyll.

Rhiannon's gifts flowed freely: food and wine and jewels.

Lord Pwyll was glad when to the table came a man,

A noble man, who bowed before Lord Pwyll, implored:

'A boon I crave, good sir, if you will show me honor.'"

"'What I can give is yours,' Lord Pwyll agreed.

Rhiannon groaned to Pwyll, 'You fool, you've foiled our plan,

That man is Gwawl, he means to have my hand.'

Lord Pwyll was bound, for Gwawl demanded her.

She told Lord Pwyll, 'If you are quick, I may be freed,

Return here in a year, and bring this magic bag to succeed.'

Rhiannon whispered plans to Pwyll, and said farewell.

Each spent the year apart--"

"Are you speaking in verse?" The voice came from behind Hodgins and he started in surprise. The others at the table reacted similarly and he turned around to see Zack smiling at them. His hair was freshly cut and his skin was almost tanned—well, at least not quite as pale as usual. A chaotic chorus of greetings began as everyone stood and crowded around the young doctor.

After much hugging, shaking of hands, and open-handed pats on the shoulder, they all resumed their seats, Zack sitting between Hodgins and Brennan. Hodgins grasped Angela's hand under the table, not having expected to feel this pleased at the completion of their little group. He hadn't wanted Zack to go to Iraq for several reasons, not least of which was worry for his safety. Now that he had returned, as they chattered away happily, it seemed as if a weight had been lifted off all of them.

Zack turned to Hodgins and asked, "Why were you speaking in verse?"

Hodgins chuckled. "Oh, it's nothing. We were just trying to kill some time."

"I don't recall you ever speaking in rhymes when you were bored," Zack commented.

Angela cut in, "We were telling stories, Zack. Like in the Canterbury Tales."

Zack nodded, but then frowned. "Wouldn't it be easier to tell stories that don't rhyme?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Hodgins replied.

"Did you all speak in verse?" he asked as he glanced around the table.

"No, no," Booth answered hastily. "Just Hodgins. Well, Bones hasn't told hers, but Angela and I didn't."

"You don't have to stop on account of me," Zack said, looking at Hodgins.

"Oh, no, that's okay," Hodgins said dismissively. "It's not important."

Hodgins couldn't help noting the looks of mild disappointment on Angela's and Brennan's faces and a small surge of pride rose in him.

"Clearly, the others want to hear the rest of your story, and I would, too. I can tell a story after, if that makes it fair."

Hodgins raised his eyebrows and checked his dinner companions for their approval. At their nods, he shrugged.

"Well, alright then. I was telling the story of Pwyll and Rhiannon, and--"

"The one where she's accused of eating her child?" Zack interrupted, and Booth gave him a surprised, puzzled look.

"No," Hodgins replied. "The one where they first meet. Pwyll just promised her to Gwawl, and Rhiannon whispered her plan to Pwyll."

"Okay," Zack nodded.

Hodgins took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, trying to find his place in the story. After a moment's hesitation, he recited:

"He journeyed forth and brought his host,

And as Rhiannon told, he dressed in low apparel,

And as a beggar, came to court, determined to do well.

Lord Pwyll begged Gwawl a favor for such a wretch as he,

'Please fill this bag with food,' but as Gwawl tried, he couldn't come close,

So Pwyll explained, 'A noble man must step inside and boast:

"This bag is full," else never shall it be enough.'

As Gwawl stepped in the bag, Pwyll hid his glee,

For once inside the bag closed over him speedily."

"Thus Gwawl was bound and though he did protest,

The court said naught, and then arrived Pwyll's men to bluff,

'This bag! A badger's in the bag!' To Gwawl they were rough.

Each struck a blow to Gwawl, with staff or foot or fist,

And he called out to be let go, his voice was clearly stressed.

With promises of safety, they let Gwawl out, a bloody mess.

Reluctantly he told Lord Pwyll he'd won Rhiannon's hand.

Lord Pwyll set sureties, vengeance Gwawl must resist,

And so the loser left, though surely he was pissed."

Here Hodgins paused briefly, until his friends' chuckles died away. With a quick grin, he continued:

"Lord Pwyll was free at last to have his lovely bride,

Through the night they feasted, a wedding long and grand,

And in the morning, Pwyll and dear Rhiannon set off for his lands."

With a flourish, Hodgins gave a small bow from his seat, smiling broadly as Angela, Brennan, Booth, and Zack all applauded. He knew his story was shorter than the others, but as it turned out, coming up with rhymes while trying to keep the story flowing was harder than he anticipated. Angela slipped her hand under the table and squeezed his thigh; Hodgins cleared his throat, flashing her a grin.

"I knew you were romantic, Jack, but I never would've guessed you could come up with poetry on the spot," Angela remarked.

"I'm just full of surprises, I guess," Hodgins chuckled.

"That was pretty good," Zack said, "Though your iambic meter was off in a few spots."

Hodgins rolled his eyes, and the rest of the group laughed. The waitress appeared at their table, having noticed Zack's arrival, and took his drink order. As they had already decided what they wanted to have for their entrees, they went around the table, giving the waitress their order. After a little waffling, Angela decided on the pan-fried rockfish, with the caveat that she would be able to sample Hodgins' roasted moulard duck if it looked good. Their menus gone, they all settled back into their chairs, sipping their drinks and finishing off the rest of the appetizers, as they questioned Zack about his time abroad. They had kept in touch while he was gone, but emails and the odd phone call were much different than talking in person.

"Do you guys want to hear my story?" Zack asked after a while.

"You don't really have to tell a story if you don't want to," Angela said gently.

"Oh, come on, he's probably got a ton of good stories now," Hodgins grinned.

Zack smiled. "I do have a good one. I'll refrain from speaking in rhymes, though."


	5. Chapter 5

I was going to save this for another day or two, but I'd like to move on to Brennan's Tale. Two quick things.. first off, Booth and Brennan are not a couple in this fic. This assumes that things have continued on between them more or less the same since the season finale. And secondly, some of the things I talk about in this story are true, and others I've made up. If you find something incorrect, just assume I made it up for the sake of making my life a little easier.

As always, thanks to FauxMaven for her help on this chapter. This chapter was probably the hardest to write (yes, even harder than the poetry), so her advice was especially appreciated.

And now, on with the show!

---------------

Zack considered himself to be an observant person. He knew that others sometimes thought of him as naïve or oblivious, but he preferred the term discrete. But the fact was, he noticed things. He saw the way both Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth were subtly leaning towards each other. He had paid attention to the expression on Hodgins' face when he'd first arrived—the look of pride, pleasure, and relief, despite the mocking Hodgins used as a front. Zack even noticed the way the waitress looked at Agent Booth, and then the faintly jealous glance she had thrown at Dr. Brennan.

But in some ways, he was naïve. He was learning, though, and it was one of his more recent lessons that he planned to share with his colleagues.

"I'll tell you why I went to Iraq, what was expected of me, and how I failed," he began. He let himself be drawn back to the beginning of his story, and spoke of his decision to accept President Bush's invitation.

_When the letter arrived, he felt pleased. More than pleased, he felt important. After all, they had sought him out, not Dr. Brennan. It was a nice change, being the one who was special, rather than the unimportant graduate student or the sometimes superfluous second-string forensic anthropologist on the team. Sure, he helped with investigations, but more often than not, Dr. Brennan had to translate for him, or Hodgins poked fun at him, or he was relegated to reenacting murders, always as the victim. But now he would be able to shine all on his own. He didn't really like those thoughts that popped into his head, but they were there nonetheless._

Zack noticed the looks of discomfort on the faces of his companions. They didn't seem to like his admissions, but maybe that was only due to their perceptions of the embarrassment they thought he must be feeling. But embarrassment wasn't a logical emotion. Still, for the ease of his friends, he moved on.

_His journey to Iraq was not as difficult as he expected. On arrival, he was shown to his living quarters, which were ample and comfortable. He had several days to settle in and various aides attended to all of his needs. There was a meeting with the man who would be acting as his supervisor, a civilian administrator named Ted Hendricks ("Just call me Ted"). The man had been pleasant and expressed his eagerness to work with a forensic anthropologist of Zack's caliber._

_After a few days, he received a briefing on an excavation taking place in Abu Ghraib prison. Camp Ganci, a tented area that had once held detainees, had been razed to make room for a new compound. Construction had started but then stopped almost immediately when human remains were discovered. It was supposed that these were the remains of fourteen political prisoners that were executed in 1997._

At this point in Zack's story, Booth interrupted. "Are you sure you're supposed to be telling us this?" He waved a hand, encompassing those seated at their table. "I'm sure we don't all have security clearance."

Zack shrugged. "I'm not sure that it matters. Beyond that, which of you would tell on me?"

"Go ahead, Zack," Brennan encouraged. "Keep telling the story."

_At another meeting, this time with the men and women he would be working with, his supervisor, Ted, went over the details of what was to be analyzed first; then, to Zack's surprise, he went into great detail about Zack's credentials and merits. Zack was, the man explained, the perfect person to head up the team. Zack felt his face flush bashfully, though he also felt a swell of pride. The others on the team, all at least a few years older than Zack, wore expressions ranging from polite interest to blunt disbelief. Their supervisor spoke up again, stressing Zack's considerable intelligence, experience, and suitability._

_They began working in earnest the next day. His colleagues all seemed able to work well together and were willing to take direction from Zack. He was glad to be able to share some techniques that he had learned from Dr. Brennan that proved useful. The heat was oppressive and made the excavation difficult. It took several days to fully remove all of the remains and necessary samples from the surrounding soil. The prison's morgue, where they would be completing their analysis, had been fitted with air conditioning, a huge relief to the team._

_The problems began almost immediately. The first anomaly they discovered was that there were twenty-three bodies, not the fourteen they had been told to expect. That in itself could be explained fairly easily. But then there were other things; their examinations of the bones bore discrepancies. They looked too recent; Zack thought that they had spent more like five years in the ground, rather than ten. The causes of death didn't match how the political prisoners were supposed to have died. And more, as the days progressed, Zack found himself unable to match the remains with any of the information he had been given on their assumed identities. There were a few possibilities, but nothing conclusive._

_His team began making quiet guesses as to who these twenty-three people were. Finally, reluctantly, Zack decided he needed to bring the preliminary results that disproved the assumptions of their identities to Ted. Their meeting did not go at all the way Zack had envisioned. His supervisor glanced over the results and dismissed them almost at once. He assured Zack that they had uncovered the remains of the fourteen political prisoners, along with some others that they had been unaware of, and that the team should redo their analysis. Ted was calm and assured, though firm on his point. These victims _had_ to be who he said they were. Zack left confused. He'd never been unfortunate enough to have the experience of working with someone who didn't care so much for the truth. The part of him that felt pride at being asked to lend his expertise, that rose to the challenge of being in charge, that loved the flattery of his supervisor, that part told him to examine the remains again. To try to make the evidence fit._

Zack glanced at Dr. Brennan, and now he did feel ashamed. She looked incredulous and disappointed. Hurriedly, he continued on with his story.

_That night, in his comfortable quarters, Zack tried to find the best course of action. He felt sickened at the thought of twisting the facts to fit the scenario his supervisor favored. But still, he so loved being here and being in charge; he loved being the best. Even the next morning, he was unsure of what to do. He knew what he should do, but didn't know if he'd be able to. But when he walked into the morgue and came face to face with the men and women who had come to respect his expertise, Zack felt strengthened. There was some grumbling as Zack explained that they needed to start again from scratch. The remains were to be re-examined thoroughly, with no room for mistakes. Zack knew what the results would be, but he wouldn't allow anyone to second guess his work. If he had to put his neck on the line and say definitively that these bodies were not the victims of the 1997 executions, he wanted to have good evidence holding up his assertion._

_The analysis took time. Weeks. In his spare time, Zack researched other mass executions and reached his own conclusion. He waited to get all of the results before going to the supervisor he had come to detest, and when Zack did confront him with his conclusions, the man was furious. Despite overwhelming evidence that the remains they had found were those of twenty-three political prisoners who had been murdered in 2001, Ted was completely unwilling to accept the team's findings. To Zack's consternation, he tried coercing Zack into falsifying the analysis. Upon seeing Zack so taken aback, his supervisor feigned defeat. _

_Collapsing into his desk chair, Just-Call-Me-Ted bemoaned his predicament and his inability to hide things from such a clever man as Zack. He spoke of an insurgent group that was causing particular trouble, and how the government was desperate to get the insurgents to ease up their campaign of violence. It was known that they revered an imam who had been highly respected in Saddam's regime. The imam had been kidnapped and killed by Kurdish rebels in 1997 and was now viewed as a martyr. Recently, the government had received intelligence that the murder of the imam by Kurds was a ruse, and that the cleric had actually been imprisoned by Saddam in Abu Ghraib. Thus the idea was born to definitively prove this to the insurgents, and perhaps respectfully turned over the remains for them to bury properly, hoping that they might lessen their attacks._

_Zack stood still, appalled by Ted's admission. He understood now that he was never supposed to truly identify remains. He was younger, more eager to prove himself, and tired of being eclipsed by Dr. Brennan. They had known this and sought him out, not for his knowledge, but because he would be easier to flatter into falsifying documents for the greater good._

"And I refused," Zack finished simply.

To Zack's surprise, Dr. Brennan leaned over and gave him a brief, slightly awkward hug. When she pulled back, she opened her mouth to speak, but Zack cut her off.

"It's okay, Dr. Brennan."

"That took balls, man, to tell that story," Hodgins said appreciatively.

Zack shrugged. "Why? Because someone thought I would be less honorable than I am? That just reflects poorly on them." Zack glanced at Agent Booth, seeking confirmation.

Booth gave him a nod of approval, but didn't speak. Instead, he turned to Dr. Brennan.

"Okay, Bones, your turn. We still have time before they bring our food out."

Zack noticed a light flush creep up Dr. Brennan's neck and wondered what it meant. She never had trouble speaking in front of an audience, and he didn't know why she would now show signs of embarrassment in front of her friends.

"I hope you're not disappointed. My story isn't personal, it's something I made up a while ago and have been sitting on ever since." She smiled, moving her eyes around the table, until she finally rested her gaze on Booth. After a moment's hesitation, she pulled her focus from him and began her story.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I want Bones, I really do. Well, what I really want is Booth, the others can go. But, alas, I'm not so lucky.

This chapter is my favorite of the story. I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Thanks to FauxMaven for her tireless work with this whole story.

----------------

Brennan folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight, calmly ignoring the light fluttering in her stomach. While she loved telling stories, she always felt slightly nervous at the outset, worried that she wouldn't be able to do herself justice. And now here in front of her friends, she felt, if anything, more nervous. It was easy to dismiss worries over whether strangers would enjoy a reading from one of her books, but these were people whose opinions mattered to her. She glanced briefly at Booth, who was watching her openly, and she thought she detected more interest in his face than he showed for any of the others' stories.

She began speaking quietly. "Once upon a time, when the grass was greener, the trees were taller, and the sun above shone more brightly than it does today, there were two men. They were both brave and strong and just, and they were both knights. Corliss was older by a few years and more seasoned, though Thierry was good as well."

After pausing for a moment to give the characters' names some weight, she continued, "Corliss and Thierry were companions in the best sense of the word. They fought for each other, they strove daily alongside each other, and they traveled everywhere together. Where one found Corliss, Thierry was always close. They were each other's family, for neither had been fortunate enough to marry, and neither had relatives to speak of."

Brennan made her voice deeper, heartier, as she said, "There came one day when Corliss and Thierry found themselves in the court of their liege, Lord Berthold. They had been abroad for a long while, doing knightly things, and upon their return to Berthold's castle, they were feasted and gifted with wondrous tokens, for they were favorites of Lord Berthold. At their lord's table, Corliss sat at his right hand, while Thierry sat at his left, places of high honor, both. Thierry boasted of their adventures, of justice upheld and evil banished from realms, while Corliss remained quiet, as he often did. While the younger man rambled and his liege drank thirstily, occasionally splashing wine over the rim of his goblet, Corliss noticed a young woman pass through the hall. At that moment, Thierry fell silent, as well."

"Corliss thought that this was the most comely woman he had ever set eyes upon." She spoke more softly here, emphasizing the woman's traits with her tone. "Her long flaxen hair cascaded over the pale skin of her shoulders and down her slender back. The woman's face was lovely and friendly, and Corliss wondered at once why he had never seen her before. As he turned to inquire of Lord Berthold the maiden's identity, he was shocked and dismayed to hear Thierry speak first. Thierry asked of the woman's name and was told she was Emily, daughter of Lord Truman, who had lands to the south."

"With a glare, Corliss caught Thierry's attention. 'Good friend,' the knight began, 'I beg your pardon, but I have seen this maiden first. It is my right to court her if I wish.' Thierry disagreed heartily and quickly their disagreement grew out of hand. They each pronounced their friendship finished and, with their liege's hasty approval, stormed separately out of the hall."

Brennan took a moment to sip her wine, glancing around at her dinner companions. She had long ago learned to stay aware of her audience and tailor the pace and length of her readings to suit their interest. On her friends' face she saw the attention and expressions of pleasure that she usually associated with a good reading.

"And it was so that the inseparable pair of Corliss and Thierry were divided. They each sought Emily's favor, much to the young woman's disconcertion. She was faced with two men, equal in their strength, fairness, charm, and attractiveness, and she knew not what to do. Corliss and Thierry were each ardent in expressing their love for her, and as she grew to know them both, she found herself even more dismayed by her need to choose. She found Thierry witty and well learned; his stories of his accomplishments dazzled her. Corliss at first puzzled her, for at times he was gentle but firm in his insistence that he would make the better husband, while at other times he let his frustration get the best of him and seemed near capitulation."

"Finally the feud between the two knights became too much for Lord Berthold to bear." Brennan let out a long sigh, mimicking the exasperation of Berthold. She shook her head slightly in mock disappointment before saying, "Their liege took them into counsel and asked them honestly if there was a way out of this impasse. Before either of the men could give a satisfactory answer, they fell to shouting at each other, and Berthold stamped his foot in annoyance. 'This is to be settled, once and for all. If you cannot come to an agreement, than it shall be reconciled with a joust. The prize is Emily's hand.'"

Brennan paused again for the drama of it before continuing, "Corliss and Thierry were both bold and confident, pleased that the matter would be settled once and for all. They were each sure that they would be victorious. Emily, meanwhile, was distraught with worry, for while she had come to love both men, she feared that she would end up with the lesser man by chance. Thus, she spent the days before the joust praying that whoever loved her most would be champion."

"Likewise, the eve of the joust found both Corliss and Thierry praying fervently in a last desperate attempt to secure the outcome. Corliss closed his eyes and envisioned his beloved Emily, radiant in her wedding clothes, standing beside him in church. He prayed fervently that he would be the one to marry her, for he knew that he would be able to make her happy. Elsewhere, Thierry paced, reciting a litany of reasons why he should be victorious. Finally he fell to his knees, beseeching God for Corliss' defeat."

The tale was nearing its end and Brennan could feel the energy of it building. She tried to keep her pace even, so as not to rush the story, while also trying use her tone to impart a sense of excitement and mounting tension.

"The morning woke to find the tilt yard outside the curtain wall crowded with the castle's inhabitants. Corliss and Thierry, mounted on their chargers, waited on opposite sides of the lists. Emily, seated in the stands next to Lord Berthold and his retainers, fretted. Before long, the herald arose and announced the rules as thus: one point would be given for a broken lance, two points would be given for a blow to the head, and three points would be given for unseating the opponent. For the sake of speed, tilting was to be the only part of the joust, especially as Lord Berthold wished his two favorite knights to live—and battle axes and swords seemed to increase the likelihood of a fatality."

"Their chargers stamped at the ground, ready and awaiting a kick of the heels. Corliss held his lance high as he turned his steed on the spot, then lowered his visor. At the sound of the horns, Thierry lowered his visor as well and both men spurred their horses onward. The thunder of hoof beats shook the ground and pounded through Emily's body as she sat tensely, her fingers held to her lips. With a crash, their lances made impact, the solid oak splintering, sending shards through the air. Each had won a point."

"Corliss and Thierry returned to the end of the lists, seeking new lances. The cloth padding under their armor helped dull the blow, though both men already felt sore. Again, the horns blasted, and the men kicked their heels into the sides of their chargers. Dirt flew up from under the vigorous hooves beating the earth as Corliss and Thierry sped towards each other. Crack! Thierry slumped back in his saddle, dazed from receiving Corliss' lance to his head. Back with his squires, they took Thierry's broken lance and handed him a new one. Corliss was in the lead now, with three points to Thierry's two."

Brennan's throat was becoming dry, though not from speaking. She resisted the urge to take a sip of her wine, not wanting to break the flow of the story.

"Relentlessly, the horns sounded again. Emily gripped the edges of her seat, her eyes screwed up in an effort to spare herself the horror, though her attempt was ineffective. At the last moment, her eyes flew open. Wood collided with metal with a throbbing roar, and Corliss was pushed backwards, into the air, off his horse, and down into the dry, dusty, unforgiving dirt. Stunned, he lay still for a second, a minute, maybe an hour, until he found the strength to look at the lance he was still holding. It was unbroken."

"Despair washed through him and he could not move. Thierry was victor. Corliss became aware of a commotion at the other end of the field. Surely the spectators were praising Thierry for unseating his erstwhile friend and winning Lady Emily's hand. He didn't think he could bear it, and sought to escape the crowds unnoticed. As his squires pulled him to a sitting position, he was startled to see hands pulling a limp Thierry from his seat, then carrying him off towards the keep. He turned to his squire, his question dead on his lips. The squire murmured, 'A splinter, through the visor.'"

"Corliss struggled to his feet, thrust his way past the throngs, into the great hall. Someone who was only a blur to the distressed knight motioned towards the chambers down a corridor off the hall and Corliss was there without remembering having taken any steps. He shouldered aside Thierry's squires and prying courtiers and fell at his old friend's bedside. Blood covered the young man's still face, a gash along one eyebrow and a horribly broken eye. And Corliss wept."

Here Brennan allowed herself to pause and gazed down at her hands in her lap. She gave her friends a moment to absorb the meaning of her words before speaking again.

"After a time, Corliss allowed himself to be taken from Thierry's body, to have his armor removed, and his skin cleansed. He lay in his bed, contemplating the folly that led them to this point. Before long his reverie was interrupted by a servant summoning him to Lord Berthold's side. He found his liege in the nearly emptied hall, instructing his men as to arrangements for Thierry's burial. Corliss stood awkwardly, averting his eyes from the tear-stained face of Emily. When Berthold turned to him, Corliss forced himself to meet his gaze. His liege spoke, 'Sir Thierry was lost today, and I am sorely disappointed. To the man you counted as a brother, you have shown naught but anger these past few months. Alas, you have what you wanted, you may marry Lady Emily. I hope you treat her with the love and compassion you should have given your friend.' Lord Berthold turned and left the room, leaving Corliss and Emily alone. He drew her into his arms and as she wept into his chest, he murmured reassurances, pledges of love, vows of honor. Her tears soaked through to his skin, but Corliss suppressed his sorrow. The time for that was past."

"And there happened in the end what should have happened in the beginning. The man who desired love got what he wanted, and the man who desired victory got what he wanted. Everyone knew and has never forgotten that whoever has a mind turned to greed is sure to end badly," she concluded.

Brennan placed her hands on the table and smiled, surveying her audience. Zack and Hodgins seemed pleased with the story but as she turned to Angela, she saw a little too much understanding in her friend's eyes. Brennan looked quickly away and her eyes found Booth. Though he was smiling, his eyes were unreadable, and it made her nervous.

She cleared her throat. "That's, um, based on one of the stories in Chaucer, the Knight's Tale."

Zack nodded. "Yes, I recognized it. You kept the female character's name the same."

Brennan smiled her acknowledgment and glanced quickly at Booth and Angela, both of whom were gazing at her thoughtfully. Thankfully, Hodgins distracted her.

"All this medieval stuff is fun to mess around with, isn't it? You know, they have a Renaissance Faire going on in Maryland that'll be ending soon." He turned to Angela. "Maybe we should go up there this weekend. I can be your knight in shining armor," he grinned.

Angela chuckled and patted his arm. "We'll see."

Hodgins leaned over and kissed her lightly. "If you're good, I'll show you my sword," he promised with a smirk.

"Okay, guys, that's probably better off as private conversation," Brennan interrupted.

She could feel Booth's eyes on her as the rest of the squints chatted and was about to excuse herself to the bathroom when the waitress appeared with several plates balanced on her arms. Never had Brennan been so happy to see food, and with it, distraction. As they all settled into the pleasant commotion of arranging plates and glasses, finding silverware and spreading out napkins, Brennan felt a relief that was only slightly marred by the occasional sense that Booth was glancing at her more often than was strictly normal.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't make any money from writing this stuff. I really wish I did, but alas, wishes can't always come true.

Author's Note is at the end. On with the show!

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The night was quiet, the air cool with an early-fall chill. Lights rushed past, multicolored blurs, as Brennan stared out the window of Booth's SUV while he drove, her mind on the evening she had just spent with her friends. It had been a relief to see Zack, even though logically she had known he was safe since flying to his parents' home a week earlier. She hadn't realized she needed visual proof before really believing he was back, but that was the case. He seemed a little more mature, more willing to try to be part of the group, socially speaking, and she recalled him telling his story so earnestly.

"You okay, Bones?" Booth broke the silence that had fallen soon after leaving the restaurant.

"Yes, I'm fine. I was just thinking about Zack," she answered.

Booth hummed in response and fell quiet again, and Brennan found her thoughts turning to her partner. After telling her story, he had seemed a little off. She couldn't put her finger on what specifically was different, or what he might have been thinking, but since the change coincided with her tale, logically that must have been the cause. She wondered if he had disliked the story or if maybe he had seen through her setting and names and understood the true meaning that lay underneath. She hoped it was the former.

Truthfully, the story had been an interpretation of her relationships with Booth and Sully. When the wounds of Sully leaving were still fresh, she had gotten the idea to try writing about it, and her words had flowed easily. She was surprised to find that it had helped to work out the confusing mess of feelings using made-up characters. And then, she was even more surprised to find that it actually turned out to be a pretty good story.

But she wasn't really ready for Booth to know how she felt about him, at least, she didn't think she was. She thought sometimes that her interest was reciprocated: little glances he threw her way, soft touches on her arm or back, and his late night visits all seemed to say that he had feelings for her as well. But then he would seem to shift, as if his interest in her was like the flow from a faucet that he could just turn off. Either way, though, admitting her feelings to him would change their relationship, their friendship. Somehow that felt like it would be a loss, even if it meant gaining him as a lover. She counted on his friendship so much and she worried that things would be too different if they moved into a romance.

On the other hand, she couldn't deny that she had been thinking of him in a decidedly unpartnerly way for months now. Against her will, images of him rose in her mind that made her grow warm, and she glanced surreptitiously at him. His eyes were focused on the road, his strong hands gripping the steering wheel, dark stubble covering his cheeks, lips turned down slightly in thought. Why did her gaze always linger on his mouth? It frustrated her to no end. At least he was wearing a jacket—when he wore t-shirts, she had a difficult time keeping her eyes off the ridges of his muscles visible through the thin cotton.

She forced her eyes away from him, to the window, and was surprised to see that they were near her apartment.

"I thought we were going back to the lab. My car's there, and all my stuff," she protested.

"It's late and your place is closer. I'll pick you up in the morning."

She pouted. "I had things in my car that I wanted to work on tonight."

Booth glanced at her. "Bones, it's nearly midnight."

She shrugged, but didn't complain again. When Booth pulled in front of her building, she got out of the car and moved towards her door, but soon realized he wasn't following. She turned to find him leaning against the front of the truck. Arching an eyebrow, she took a few steps back toward him before stopping.

"Booth?"

He gazed at her silently and she closed the distance between them, concerned.

"It was nice, going out with you guys tonight," he said. It struck her as an odd thing to say.

"Yeah, I had fun," she nodded. "It was a good restaurant."

Booth nodded in return. "It was. I never knew it was named after a place Chaucer wrote about."

Smiling slightly, she said, "I didn't think that was something you would know. That's more my thing."

"Hey, I know Chaucer." He paused for a moment. "He coined the term 'bones' to mean dice."

Brennan blinked at him. This whole conversation was surreal. "Really?"

He nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Booth," she began. "What's going on here?"

He hesitated before answering, then said, "I was just thinking about your story."

Her breath caught briefly and her heart sank. He knew. Maybe she could... "Oh, that thing. I just reworked one of Chaucer's tales." Her story did resemble the Knight's Tale, but she hadn't done that intentionally.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Really? It seemed familiar to me."

"You must've read the Canterbury Tales in school."

"I don't think that's it," he said, shaking his head slightly.

Her eyes crinkled in half a wince. "It's not?"

Again he shook his head. He tucked the hem of his jacket back as he slipped his hands into his pockets and just watched her. Her gaze flicked from his eyes to his mouth, to the triangle of skin that she could see under his unbuttoned collar, across his shoulders, down his chest, to his—no, not there—she forced herself to meet his eyes again.

A light breeze blew down the street and as the leaves rustled overhead, she shivered. Almost of their own accord, his hands came up and rested on her upper arms; he moved them up and down over her thin shirt, warming her skin. His hands moved relentlessly, back and forth, up and down, and the feel of his hands simultaneously befuddled her mind and made it nearly impossible to draw a breath. When he leaned toward her, her eyes half closed, expecting to feel his lips on hers, and when he moved his mouth past hers and closer to her ear, she felt ridiculous for thinking he was about to kiss her. Then he spoke, and his voice was so quiet, so deep, and the sound of him stirred things within her she didn't know could be moved so.

"I know what your story was about, Temperance."

She shook her head slightly, ready to deny it, but he spoke again before she could reply.

"You can insist all you want that it wasn't a thinly veiled reworking of what happened between you and Sully, and what's been going on between us. But you and I know the truth," he whispered.

A familiar kind of panic rose inside her, but it struggled to overcome her intense curiosity about what he would say next. Unconsciously she turned, seeking to put some space between them, to clear her head, but his hands were still on her arms, still rubbing over the filmy silk of her shirt, and he guided her movement until she found herself against the grill of his truck. Only then did he let go of her arms, though he held her captive by placing his hands on the hood on either side of her.

She could feel the heat cascading off him. His scent was intoxicating: a blend of his cologne, the tang of the beer he'd drank, and the uniqueness of Booth. He held her gaze, his face serious and filled with a need she only dimly recognized.

"I can't give you the romance of a castle and suits of armor and jousts. When I rescue you, it won't be on horseback, and when I fight for you, it won't be with a sword." He hesitated and worry briefly flitted across his face, before his features softened. He leaned closer to her, his lips inches from her mouth, their foreheads nearly touching. "But I'll be your knight, Temperance. It's all I've ever wanted to be."

Her mind was a blur of thoughts and questions and yet none of these made their way to her lips. Instead she tilted her head tentatively and edged ever so closer to him. When their lips met, their kiss was sweet and tender and full of promise. She barely had time to register that she had finally taken that last, most difficult leap, when he pulled back and gazed intently at her.

"Is that a yes?" he asked.

"You didn't ask me a question," she said automatically.

Rolling his eyes, Booth opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. "But it is a yes. Yes. Please, be my knight."

He drew her into his arms and this time their kiss was anything but soft and slow. She tasted him eagerly and his mouth moved voraciously against hers, a heady swirl of nimble tongue and gentle teeth and soft lips. His fingers wound themselves in her hair, holding her to him. She skimmed her hands along his sides and back and pulled him closer to her, delighting in the firmness of his strong body underneath her palms, and feeling as if she could never be close enough to him. Here at last, in the middle of her street, with warm metal pressing into her back and bottom, she knew what it was to be in the arms of a man who accepted her for who she was, faults and issues all, and still wanted her.

Time passed, though it felt as if had been only seconds and also as if it had been hours. She found herself with her cheek pressed to his chest, his chin resting gently atop her head. His arms were tight around her and while the cool breeze still flitted across her skin, she felt warm. She stayed still until she felt him shift subtly, and then she pulled back from him.

"We should probably go inside," she said quietly.

His grin was quick and sure. "We?"

"Oh, well, you know—" she faltered. "If you'd rather go, that's fine. It's late, you're probably tired, and—"

Booth laughed and gave her hands a quick squeeze. "I was just kidding, Bones."

She drew her hands out of his grip and prodded him in the center of his chest. "That wasn't nice," she huffed. Turning on her heel, she clucked her tongue as she strode toward her door. She listened carefully for his footsteps. After a moment, she grinned, hearing him jogging to catch up, as he called his familiar, "Bones! Wait up!"

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I owe a huge thank you to the incomparable FauxMaven. Not only did she provide the inspiration, but she also gave me valuable input and advice for each chapter. Thanks! I also need to say thank you to my husband who helped me with a lot of brainstorming, especially for Zack's Tale.

Each of the character's stories was based on or inspired by one of the tales from Canterbury Tales. Angela's story was inspired by the Wife of Bath's Tale. I thought she'd be perfect for a story about what women really want, choice, and equality in relationships. Booth's tale was based on the Pardoner's Tale. I really liked the idea of people setting out to find Death, and dying.. so I just adapted that to what we know of Booth's history. The Franklin's Tale provided the original inspiration for Hodgins' story. The Franklin's Tale is a Breton lai and while my version comes nowhere close to a true Breton lai, it was what I had in mind when I wrote it. I also thought Hodgins would identify with tales of courtly love and rash promises. However, it wasn't until I was telling stories to my kids when I realized the story of Pwyll and Rhiannon, from the Mabinogion, would be a good fit. Zack's story was inspired by the Nun's Priest's Tale (the story of Chanticleer). I took the themes of pride and flattery and applied them to Zack being in Iraq. Brennan's story, as I've already mentioned, was based on The Knight's Tale. It struck me as being quite appropriate for her, as there are some parallels between the tale and Brennan's situation with Sully and Booth.

I really enjoyed writing this whole story, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks!


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